by Teri Wilson
Susan’s face has gone as white as Owl Lake’s snow-covered landscape by the time I finish. Her eyes—the same beautiful blue as Aidan’s—flit toward the charms splayed out innocently on the wrist of my sweater. “Is that it? That’s the magical bracelet?”
“Yes. I can’t get it off. The catch won’t open, no matter how hard I try.” The charms sparkle beneath the ultra-bright lights of the jewelry shop.
The store is, for lack of a better word, charming. I’ve had a chance to poke around, and I practically swooned over the case containing vintage rings, bracelets and old-fashioned brooches. There are even a few charm bracelets that look like they’re from the 1950s, but I’m not going there. I never thought I’d say this, but I have enough charms in my life as it is.
“Actually, that’s why I came in here in the first place. I was hoping someone could help me get this thing off, once and for all. I just didn’t expect it to be you.” Happiness, mixed with a dash of hope, fills me from within. “But I’m really glad it is.”
Susan beams. “So am I.” But then her gaze drops once again to the bracelet. “Are you sure removing the bracelet is really what you want, though?”
Seriously? Of course it’s what I want.
I nod. “I have an entire collection of ruined bobby pins to prove it.”
She holds up a hand. “Hear me out for a minute. If the bracelet is somehow magical and if the charms are coming to life, maybe it’s all happening for a reason. What did Betty’s note say, again?”
I know exactly what the note says. I’ve read it so many times that the words are probably permanently engraved in my brain. “It said, ‘Please wear this and have the Christmas of your dreams.’”
Susan picks up her mug to take another sip of hot chocolate and then frowns when she realizes it’s empty. By now, we’ve been talking for over an hour.
More than anything, I’m simply glad she seems to believe me. After years of silence in our once-strong friendship, I’ve just shown up out of the blue and told her that a strange woman on a train gave me a magical bracelet. It’s a wonder she’s even taking me seriously. Not many people would. I’m hyperaware of the fact that I couldn’t even manage to convince my own parents that Fruitcake isn’t my dog. Although, let’s face it, he’s definitely starting to feel like mine.
“I have to say, that doesn’t sound so bad. Who wouldn’t want to have the Christmas of their dreams? Maybe you should stop fighting it and see what happens,” Susan says.
“But…” But this isn’t the way my Christmas was supposed to go. It’s definitely not the Christmas of my dreams. I stop short of saying it, because I’m not altogether sure what the Christmas of my dreams looks like anymore. “…this is just crazy. I can’t keep living in a fantasy world.”
“Think about it, though. All those movies where characters switch places or live a different version of their lives all have some kind of lesson the main character needs to learn. Maybe that’s what’s happening to you.” She bounces a little on her toes, and I can’t help but remember that while I was watching Roman Holiday on constant repeat back in high school, Susan had developed an obsession with Big starring Tom Hanks.
I breathe a silent sigh of relief that my current problems are limited to magic charms. It seems like a far easier conundrum than what poor Tom went through in that movie. “But what sort of lesson am I supposed to be learning?”
“I don’t know. Is there anything the charms have taught you so far?”
I bite my lip and consider the charms that have come to life. If there’s a lesson to be learned from the house charm, it’s that I’ve waited far too long to come home for Christmas. I won’t be making that mistake again.
I glance down at Fruitcake as I contemplate the dog charm. He’s sleeping soundly, paws twitching as if he’s dreaming about romping through the forest, chasing snowshoe hares. I’ve wanted a dog my whole life, but I never realized what actually having one would be like. Everywhere we go, people respond to him—my parents, Uncle Hugh, all the people we chatted with on our walk. Aidan. Fruitcake is helping me reconnect with all the people I’ve lost touch with since I moved away. I’m not sure I realized that until this very moment.
As for the Christmas cookies, my mom’s story about baking for the firefighters back when she and my dad were engaged sums things up perfectly. Sometimes the act of doing something is more precious than the final result. And now that I’m really thinking about it, those cookies seemed to have reconnected Aidan and me in the tiniest way.
Or they had until I’d fled.
I shake my head. It’s too much. Can’t I just have a normal holiday? I don’t want to spend the rest of my Christmas vacation terrified of what might happen next. I can’t even think about what the engagement ring charm might mean. The bare idea of it thrills and terrifies me at the same time.
I thrust my wrist towards Susan. “Please take it off. Please.”
“Okay, fine. If you insist.” She reaches into a drawer beside the cash register and pulls out a jewelers’ kit wound in a black velvet roll.
The kit contains all the basic tools—pliers in assorted sizes, needle-nose tweezers, ring clamps, a bench knife, a mallet—the whole shebang. Susan starts with the smallest pair of pliers, and I hold my breath as they clamp down over the bracelet’s catch. My heart pounds in my chest as Susan’s words come back to me.
Are you sure removing the bracelet is really what you want?
I swallow hard. A tiny flicker of doubt passes through me, but I push it down and squeeze my eyes shut tight, waiting for the snapping sound as the weight of the charms fall away and I’m finally free. And then…
Nothing.
The pliers are useless against the silver links, as is the next tool Susan tries and the next one after that. One by one, she tries them all and nothing makes a dent in the bracelet. All that effort, and not even a scratch.
It’s then that I finally accept my fate—nothing short of magic is getting this bracelet off of my wrist.
Chapter Ten
Mom greets me with a shiny gift bag overflowing with glittery tissue paper when Fruitcake and I make it home from Enchanting Jewels. My head is still spinning from my conversation with Susan. For the entire walk back to the lake house, I’ve been trying to figure out the reason I’m stuck with the Christmas charms bracelet.
I mean, I do love charms and vintage jewelry. But why me? Why? I’m pretty sure George Bailey felt the same way at some point.
I do my best to forget about the charms for the time being, though, because my mom is clearly excited about whatever is in the bag.
“Go ahead,” she says. “Open it.”
“Now?” I eye her dubiously. Our family never opens Christmas gifts before Christmas Eve.
She nods. “Yes, now.”
I wade through what seems like a thousand layers of tissue until I finally reach something soft at the bottom of the bag. It’s a sweater, and when I unfold it, I see that it’s a slightly smaller version of the one my mom is wearing—an “ugly” Christmas sweater, complete with every form of rhinestone and holiday bauble imaginable. There are even swags of sparkly green garland adorning the front of it.
It’s…a lot. The entire garment shines as bright as a disco ball.
“I noticed you forgot to bring the other Christmas sweater I sent you,” my mother says.
I didn’t forget. My bags were packed for Paris, and it just didn’t seem like the sort of thing to wear on the Champs-Élysées.
“I thought it would be fun to wear tonight for the Christmas tree lighting,” Mom adds, and there’s so much joy in her expression that there’s no way I can refuse.
To top it off, my dad strolls in at that exact moment, and guess what he’s wearing. (Other than an expression that’s a mixture of amusement and mortification.) Yep, you guessed it.
“So this is really happen
ing?” he says.
“It looks that way, Dad,” I say, unbuttoning my coat so I can go change out of my basic black cashmere and into the heavily adorned sweater. When I pick it up, it jingles even louder than my charm bracelet.
This is no magical sweater, though, because everyone seems to hear it. Fruitcake’s ears swivel back and forth, prompting my mom to dart over to the Christmas tree and pluck another gift from beneath it.
“You should probably go ahead and open this one, too,” she says, grinning from ear to ear.
“Oh, no.” Dad laughs, and his sweater goes into jingle overdrive. “Not the dog, too.”
My dad has always been a good sport about this sort of thing, pretty much wearing whatever my mom brings home and hangs in his closet. And crazy holiday sweaters are beloved in Owl Lake probably more than anyplace else on earth. But again, this is one decorative piece of clothing.
“I didn’t want him to feel left out,” my mother says as I pull a dog sweater out of the gift bag.
Yep, we’re the dorky family that’s about to attend one of the biggest holiday events our town has to offer dressed in matching hideous sweaters. Strangely enough, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Thanks, Mom.” I hug her as fiercely as I possibly can, and the affection sparkling in her eyes tells me I’m forgiven for leaving the other sweater back in my drawer.
A half hour or so later, we’re all dressed in our matching sweaters—Fruitcake included, obviously—as we head toward Main Street. The sidewalks are bustling with other Owl Lake residents, all moving in the same direction.
For as long as I can remember, the town Christmas tree has been set up directly in front of the Owl Lake Inn, a sweeping chalet-style boutique hotel situated at the end of Main Street, at the top of a gently sloping hill overlooking the entire village. This year is no exception, and with the recent snowfall, the inn looks Christmas-card perfect with icicles dripping from the forest-green shutters and gabled roof. Swags of evergreen intertwined with twinkle lights stretch from one end of the alpine-white building to the other. A gazebo sits lakeside, and for this major Owl Lake occasion, it’s housing an old-fashioned cart selling traditional roasted chestnuts and mulled cranberry-apple cider.
The tree is a noble fir with blue-green branches that look almost silver in the twilight sky. It stretches so tall that it towers over the inn. As I inhale its deep, Christmassy scent and tip my head back to take it all in, its beauty takes my breath away.
It’s hard not to compare the tree and the surrounding scene to the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree lighting back in Manhattan, which Maya and I have attended every year that I’ve lived in the city. But the crowds are always so thick that we barely manage to catch a glimpse of the tree at all, much less the moment when the lights flicker on for the first time. Being able to be so close to such a majestic tree is nice, and when I look around, I realize I’m surrounded almost entirely by people I’ve known my entire life instead of a mob of strangers. I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like not to be just another anonymous face in the crowd.
Of course I can’t take a step without having someone compliment Fruitcake’s silly sweater. The dog clearly loves the attention, strutting at the end of his candy cane–striped dog leash with his head held high. Two identical little girls in winter-white parkas with fur trim run to greet him. They’re so bundled up that it’s not until their parents almost catch up to them that I realize these cute children are Susan’s daughters.
Aidan’s nieces, I think as I search the space around Susan and her husband. He’s not with them, though. Strange. I really thought he’d be here.
Although who am I kidding? The sudden clench in my stomach feels more like disappointment than surprise.
“We meet again!” Susan says, throwing her arms around me. “I was hoping we’d run into you here.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I say.
Susan says hello to my parents and then introduces me to Josh and her girls, Olivia and Sophie.
“So this is the famous Ashley James,” Josh says, eyes twinkling. “I’ve heard a lot about you lately.”
“Is that so?” I ask, and my gaze flits to Susan.
She gives me a tiny, nearly imperceptible shake of her head to assure me that she’s kept my possibly-magical charm bracelet a secret. Thank goodness. My return to Owl Lake has been eventful enough so far without the entire town knowing I believe that I might have had a run-in with the actual Mrs. Santa Claus.
Is that what I believe?
My breath goes shallow. I’m not sure what to think about the bracelet anymore. I just know I’m stuck with it for the time being.
“Your dog is pretty,” Olivia says, rubbing one of Fruitcake’s silky ears between two delicate fingertips.
Sophie nods. “I like his sweater.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” I tell the girls in a mock whisper, and then I flash open my red coat to reveal my matching ugly sweater.
My parents do the same, and the girls collapse into a pile of giggles. They’re precious—identical from the tiny furrow in their foreheads when they laugh all the way to the perfect turnout of their feet. I remember the pictures on Susan’s phone of Olivia and Sophia dressed in fluffy pink tutus and soft ballet slippers at their recent ballet recital. And suddenly, I’m not thinking about Aidan anymore. Instead, I’m thinking about Jeremy and the things he’d said about marriage and family.
Marriage isn’t for people like us.
Had he really thought I’d never want what Susan, Josh, Sophie and Olivia have? Sure, I have goals and aspirations for my career, but marriage and a family are also a part of my dreams. A big part, I realize, as Fruitcake happily leans into the little girls’ pats and my throat goes thick.
When I look up, I find Dad watching me with a sad smile. He clears his throat, pulls a few dollar bills out of his pocket and presses them into Sophie and Olivia’s mittened hands.
“It looks like you two could use some spiced cider,” he says with a wink.
“Thank you!” they cry in unison, gazing up at Susan for permission to skip over to the gazebo.
My parents exchange a meaningful glance, and my mom volunteers to accompany Susan, Josh and the girls on their quest for warm treats.
“We’ll be right back.” She gives me a wink.
And then it’s just Dad and me, standing beneath the shelter of the noble fir’s stately branches. I take a deep inhale. The air smells like evergreen, roasted chestnuts and fresh sparkling snow—like Christmas in the Adirondacks. It’s the scent of my childhood, and I suddenly wish I could bottle it and take it back to the city with me, so I never lose my home again.
“You’ve made your mother’s Christmas,” my dad says quietly. I had a feeling he orchestrated the group exit so we could have a moment alone together, and it seems as if I was correct. “Mine too, obviously. But thank you for going along with it all—the cookies, the sweater. It means the world to her.”
“It means the world to me, too,” I say. He has no reason to believe me since I’ve been so bad about visiting, especially during the holidays, but I hope he knows how much they mean to me. I hope with my whole heart.
“I’m sorry about what happened with Jeremy, honey. I want you to know that.” My father zips his puffer coat up to his chin and tucks his hands into his pockets. It’s starting to snow again, and his broad shoulders are covered in a fine layer of frost. “We’re happy to have you home, but we know it’s not what you’d planned. Owl Lake can’t exactly compete with Paris.”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t have to compete. Christmas in Owl Lake is special, all on its own.”
All around us, people warm their hands on hot cups of cider and cheer as a fire engine pulls slowly up to the inn. I recognize it at once as Aidan’s ladder truck, and it’s rimmed in flashing multi-colored Christmas lights. Illuminated sn
owflakes decorate the front bumper, and a pair of firefighters are leaning out of the truck’s back windows, tossing candy canes into the crowd.
I glance at my dad and grin. He’s behind the Owl Lake Fire Department’s participation in the Christmas tree lighting. About a decade ago, the town tree was so tall that no one had a ladder high enough to reach its upper branches and place the star on top. As fire chief, my dad’s solution was to extend the ladder on the department’s biggest engine and have one of the firefighters climb to the end and secure the star in place. As we were walking over, Mom told me that it’s now a town tradition.
Suddenly, the fact that Aidan didn’t accompany his family to the tree lighting ceremony makes more sense. I suppose I should have known he’d be the one doing the honors this year.
“I know you weren’t fond of Jeremy,” I say. If Dad and I are having a heart-to-heart, we may as well put all of the cards on the table. Even the messy ones. “I’m sorry I didn’t pay more attention to your opinion. As it turns out, you were right about him.”
“Oh, sweetheart, don’t be sorry. All I want is for you to be happy. That’s the most important thing of all to me and your mom.”
He wraps a warm arm around my shoulders as Mom, Susan, Josh and the girls return from the gazebo just in the nick of time. The ladder on the fire truck is fully extended, and a fireman in a Santa hat is climbing up its rungs.
“Uncle Aidan!” Olivia shouts, jumping up and down.
Sophie gives my hand a tug. “That’s our uncle up there.”
“Wow, you must be really proud of him,” I say, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Susan watching me with an expression so wistful, it makes my chest ache.
Once Aidan reaches the top, the mayor of Owl Lake leads the final countdown to the moment when the lights will flash on. The shouts around me are earsplitting, echoing in the frosty night air.